


stage fright

by soulofme



Category: TharnType the Series (TV)
Genre: M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: “Phawattakun.”“Kirigun,” he replies crisply, which rouses a boyish smirk from his proclaimed enemy.
Relationships: Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Comments: 5
Kudos: 210





	stage fright

It isn’t that surprising, really, to see Tharn waiting outside of their school. It's a common occurrence, even more so on Friday evenings. But sometimes, even now, Type feels something crawl up in his throat, something that feels suspiciously like a lump. His breath stutters in his chest, every system in his body shutting down just at the sight of him.

The thing is, though, that Tharn’s not waiting for him. Or at least, that’s what it’s supposed to look like. He’s waiting for his best friend Champ, who’ll drag him off to do something dumb and reckless, like _everyone_ else does after a long week of cramming for tests and completing useless projects (note the heavy sarcasm, please).

Type’s got an image to maintain, one that’s been carefully built up over the years. It’s why when Techno elbows him rapidly between his ribs—probably hard enough to bruise—Type does his damn best to look pissed. Or least somewhere in that general vicinity. Techno's not dumb enough to point out if Type doesn't look as irritated as he usually would. Probably because he values his life.

“Doesn’t he look like he’s trying to start shit?” Techno hisses in Type’s ear, jumping up and down like a hyperactive chihuahua ready to rip the neighbor’s leg off just for walking in front of the house.

Tharn, the seasoned actor he is, goes, “Phawattakun.”

With his dark shades and ripped jeans, he looks like a try-hard movie protagonist. A protagonist that Type would let screw him seven days a week. It’s only to be expected, especially when someone like Tharn is around. No one’s invincible. Not even Type.

“Kirigun,” he replies crisply, which rouses a boyish smirk from his proclaimed enemy.

Techno's elbowing him again, mouthing something that looks awfully like _hold me back_! Tharn's never done anything to Techno, but Type and Techno are best friends. Which means Techno hates whoever Type hates. It's a rule, he swears, but Type's ninety-percent sure he made that shit up.

They have a stare-off that lasts a few seconds. An eternity, really, if you’re glaring a foe down. Except Tharn’s not exactly a foe. But he’s not really a friend, either, and that makes everything even more confusing.

But still, Type’s proud of the way they have an entire conversation just by exchanging glances. It goes something like, _you coming over? Hell yeah, of course I am._ The corners of Tharn’s lips inch higher, his expression more smile than smirk. It’s infuriating how good he looks like that.

As far as anyone knows, though, Tharn Kirigun and Type Phawattakun hate each other. They’ve been sworn enemies since sixth grade, when they’d both asked the same girl to the school dance. Type got the girl at the end, though, because that was conveniently around the time Tharn realized he liked _boys_ and not girls. Whatever.

Of course, everything didn’t start and end there. Tharn learned to play drums, so Type learned guitar. Type played soccer, so Tharn played baseball. Everything was a competition between them. It boiled down to this: who could have more friends, who could get the higher GPA, who could be _hotter_.

It’s childish to anyone with half a brain, but surprisingly people thrive off of drama. Even in college. The few kids at their university that were blessed to grow up with them seem a little peeved that they haven’t given this up yet. Only they have, but what they traded their rivalry for is a little… _complex_.

Type bites his lip and lets Techno lead him to the car. Techno’s still going on about Tharn half an hour later. They’re at a restaurant that’s between their school and Techno’s house. The food is cheap and filling, which is more than they’re used to as college students.

“You got a hard-on for him or something?” Type asks, casually snagging a greasy fry from Techno’s plate.

Techno chokes on his drink, sending little droplets of Coke everywhere. Type wrinkles his nose in disgust, which is enough for Techno to grab a wad of napkins and dab up his mess.

“Type, what the hell?” he asks, face turning almost every shade of red to ever exist. “I’m saying he’s an ass. I thought you _liked_ when I said that.”

Type shrugs, sipping at his drink. “I didn’t say all _that_.”

“You’re insufferable,” Techno answers, expression dark. Type smirks.

“You love me.”

“As if.”

Type steals another fry, making sure to dunk it into the tiny pool of ketchup on Techno’s plate as he does. He’s in the middle of licking salt off his fingers when his phone pings. It’s a picture image from Tharn, which is his cue to slyly hide his phone from Techno’s prying eyes.

It’s nothing crazy, just Tharn and Champ at a bar. Tharn in his tight shirt and tight pants and tight _everything_. Type doesn’t know what the hell Champ’s wearing. He doesn’t bother to check. It’s not important.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling, or making any kind of expression, until Techno kicks his shin.

“What?” he asks, leaning over the table to try and sneak a peak. “Did Puifai text you back?”

“I told you I’m not interested,” Type replies, placing his phone screen-side down on the table.

“Right, you’re not interested in a _goddess_ of a woman,” Techno mutters flatly, shaking his head as if he can’t fathom why Type would be uninterested. It’s a common reaction he gets from people. “Is this cause of that other chick?”

“Hm?”

“The good fuck,” Techno clarifies, waving his hand in the air.

Type snorts. “Who the hell said that?”

“Didn’t have to. She’s gotta be banger if you gave up on _Puifai_ , dude.”

“I guess.”

Translation: _yeah, no shit._

Techno gives up then, probably recognizing that Type’s not going to indulge him any time soon. They finish off their meal by talking about mundane topics like school and Techno’s part-time job in the library.

Techno drives him home after and squints up at his dorm building.

“Bro, you left your lights on again,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re the reason the trees are dying.”

“I’m—what?” Type can’t believe this, really. “Shut the fuck up.”

Techno cackles and attempts to shove him out of the door. Type reclaims his bag from the back seat and makes sure to flip Techno off before going inside.

His stomach’s flipping when he takes the stairs up, two at a time because he can’t contain himself. He’s red-faced and feeling a little on edge when he gets the door open.

Tharn’s on his bed, arms tucked behind his head. He turns to look at Type when the door clicks shut, raising an eyebrow at his disheveled state.

“Don’t tell me you ran up here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Type says, knowing damn well he’s been caught.

He abandons his bag by the door, the homework within a problem for another time. Definitely _not_ tonight.

When he straddles Tharn’s hips, he gets two hands on his hips and a gentle squeeze for his efforts. Tharn’s chest is solid beneath his hands, and Type wants to feel his bare skin more than he wants his next breath. It sounds dumb, even to himself, but damn it, he’s been waiting for this.

“Missed me?” Tharn asks, like the cocky fucker he is.

Type kisses him quiet, feeling a hell of a lot better afterwards. Tharn chuckles against his mouth, sneaking one hand down to grope at his ass, forcing Type’s hips into action by dragging him across his crotch.

Feeling dizzy, Type barely manages to say, “Wanna fuck?”

“Romantic,” Tharn murmurs, rolling his eyes right as his other hand inches up Type’s shirt. “It’s not just fucking.”

“If you say _making love_ , I’m gonna crush your balls.”

“Uh-huh,” Tharn hums, not looking entirely convinced that Type _won’t_. “We can do it later. I’ve got something to show you.”

“Really?” Type asks, sitting back. “Like what?”

“It’s a surprise,” Tharn says, smiling like a damn idiot. “You’ll like it. Seriously.”

He pats Type’s thigh, signaling for him to get up. He does, but not without making a big show of rolling his eyes and sighing extra loudly. It’s a pain in the ass to put his shoes back on, even more so to go down the stairs he’d _just fucking_ climbed.

But going out with Tharn means riding in Tharn’s souped-up Audi. Type’s running his hand over the leather seat, enjoying the feel of it beneath his fingers, when Tharn squeezes his thigh. Just once, without any true meaning to it. But Type’s not _blind_. He can see the way how Tharn’s hand wraps effortlessly around him, his hand nearly able to close around it.

He swallows. Hard.

Tharn drives for a while, maybe forty-five minutes or so, and Type’s not ashamed to admit that he’s half-asleep when the car finally rolls to a stop. He only opens his eyes because Tharn gets out of the car, letting a circle of cool evening air enter the car.

With goosebumps prickling his bare arms, Type reluctantly follows after him. Tharn’s leaning against the hood, and he grabs Type and pulls him between his legs once he’s near enough. His arm winds around Type’s waist, and he hooks his chin onto his shoulder.

“What are we doing out here?” Type asks.

 _Here_ is an overlook of the city. Everything looks so small, the towering skyscrapers and blinding lights reduced to nothing but dots on the horizon. It looks like there are stars spread out in front of them.

“Remember the first time we came here?” Tharn murmurs against the shell of his ear.

“No.”

“Really?” Tharn says, sounding very much like he wants to call Type out on that. “’Cause I do.”

“Well,” Type begins slowly, “what do you remember?”

“I remember that you kissed me.”

“And _I_ remember that you kissed me back.”

“What else was I supposed to do? I wanted you.”

“Still do?”

“Of course.”

Type places his hand over the one Tharn has resting on his stomach, absentmindedly tracing the length of a vein with his thumb.

“You’re not sick of sneaking around?”

“Of course I am,” Tharn says, pressing his lips against Type’s shoulder. “But I know you need time. I’ll give you whatever you need.”

“Stupid.”

“For you.”

“Shut up.”

They laugh, but silence quickly overtakes them again. Type leans back against Tharn’s chest, allowing someone else to hold up his weight for once. It’s strange to feel so at ease, to not worry about what other people will say for once.

“I keep thinking you’re gonna walk away.”

“And go where?” Tharn asks, as if it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. Unlikely, considering he spent the first half of tonight with _Champ_. “You’re stuck with me, baby.”

“I don’t think anyone else would’ve stayed,” Type answers, feeling guilty for some damn reason. “At least not for this long.”

“Good thing I’m not anyone else,” Tharn says, easy as anything.

“You mean that?”

“I always mean what I say,” Tharn replies, which is as annoyingly smug as it is true.

“One day,” Type says. Doesn’t have the guts to expand on it, but he feels the way Tharn’s arm pulls him even closer. Somehow.

“I know, baby.”

Deep down, in some place Type will deny ever going to, he’s scared. Scared of what will happen, of what won’t, of every goddamn thing in the world. It’s easier this way, to pretend to still hate Tharn’s guts. But it’s not better, and long ago Type had forced himself to realize the two were not synonymous.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“You can’t say shit like that, Tharn,” Type says, feeling a little frustrated. “I know this is killing you. Probably more than me.”

“It’ll kill me more if you’re not happy.”

“I wish you cared about yourself like you care about others.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. Not out loud like this, not even when he’s thought it a thousand and one times. Tharn doesn’t react at first, but then he buries his face into Type’s shoulders. He’s shaking, but Type doesn’t know if he’s crying or laughing. Maybe both, knowing him.

“I love you, baby.”

He’s heard it so many times, more than he can count. But hearing it from Tharn feels entirely different. Every time, Type swears he’s floating, somewhere high up in the sky where no one can touch him. It makes him feel emotions he can’t name, ones that are strong enough to leave him breathless and confused but ultimately wanting _more_.

That’s what everything comes down to with Tharn. Type finds himself on a quest for more, more, _more_. Whatever he can get, he’ll take. Whatever Tharn gives him, he’ll cherish. He’s never been gone like this for a person, head over heels in a way he swore didn’t exist.

Until now. Everything is different with Tharn. Usually, that’d make him shy away. He can’t handle change.

But change with Tharn has always been good. It’s always made things better, better than anything Type could have imagined on his own.

“I know,” Type manages to finally get out. “Me too.”

He’s still scared, scared that saying _it_ will somehow ruin this. Type likes what he has, wants to hold onto it for as long as he physically can.

Judging by how Tharn kisses his neck, he knows. He always tends to, sometimes even when Type himself doesn’t. They work well together, he thinks. Better than any two people ever could. Like they were meant to be, or something crazy like that. Maybe not that crazy, though.

Not when it comes to Tharn.

Tharn taps his stomach, finally releasing Type.

“Wanna go home?” he asks.

“Not yet,” Type says, knowing damn well the dream will be shattered once he and Tharn have to separate.

Tharn doesn’t say anything. He scoots over, letting Type sit down next to him on the hood. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, probably a few hours or more. When Tharn finally drives him back to the dorm, the city is already beginning to wake up.

The sun’s rising when Type kisses Tharn, right in the parking lot, not giving a shit if anyone sees. He feels fearless. He’s only ever felt that with _Tharn_.

He says, “See you later?”

And Tharn, red-faced, smiling wide, looking so fucking gorgeous, says:

“Of course.”


End file.
